XX: Not a Love Story
by guns and butter
Summary: This is the story of the boys who loved you, take three and end scene. It walks like a duck. It talks like a duck. It is sure as hell not a duck. JPSB slash.


Disclaimer: I own nothing. _Red Right Ankle_ belongs to The Decemberists. _Poema XX_ belongs to Pablo Neruda.

XX (Not a Love Story)

by guns and butter

"_Some had crawled their way into your heart, to rend your ventricles apart."_

_**the lovers' quarrel that wasn't**_

Sirius thinks, _That's the last time we fuck in _this_ classroom, then._

He can't even remember how this stupid row started, only that it has somehow ended up here, propped awkwardly against the empty desks, sweat drying cool and clammy underneath their clothes—and, really, this whole situation is just ridiculous.

He and James argue constantly, of course, but Sirius can count on one hand the number of times their arguments have lasted five minutes. Mostly it happened back in their first year, when Sirius still used the word _mudblood_ and James still hexed him for it.

Even after the incident with Snape in sixth year—James had every right to knock him senseless for having forced him to save Snivellus's pathetic life. But he didn't. He just gave him a look, and shook his head, and together they went to beg forgiveness from Moony. It was the first time James had ever looked at him like that, but not the last.

Sirius will be the first to admit that he has made some monumentally stupid decisions in his life.

"Let it go, James." He sighs, suddenly torn between irritation and weariness. "I don't fucking want to talk about this anymore."

James growls in frustration, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Jesus, Sirius, if you would just—_damn_ it." He pulls his hand away from his face, and grips Sirius hard by the shoulder. "Just tell me the fucking _truth_, for once."

Not for the first time, Sirius considers laughing in James's face.

Because what can he say? The truth. The truth is that James is marrying a Muggle-born redheaded skirt with gentle hands and a pretty smile. The truth is that Sirius has dreams about the trail of James's fingers across his shoulder blades. The truth is that seven years are gone, and Voldemort wants them all dead, and Sirius feels sick when he thinks about the bitter chill of lonely sheets against his skin.

"The truth?" His voice sounds unsteady and childish to his own ears. "The truth is that if you don't let go of me, I'll break your legs. Now sod off."

He pulls away, lamely adjusting his tie—but before he can go farther, James has caught him by the wrist, and is glaring at him with what Sirius recognizes as arrogant, unadulterated rage.

"Listen, you bloody idiot—"

"Let me go," Sirius says. His chest is tight with what must be anger; he can hardly breathe.

"I won't," James snaps, but his eyes are soft, and Sirius hates him.

"You will," and he jerks his arm away. "Trust me."

Sirius smirks coldly, but just as he is about to make his grand exit, James grabs him again, this time by the tie. James yanks hard, red and gold silk tangled around his long fingers, and there is definitely something inappropriately sexual about this. Sirius half-expects James to tug their bodies closer, to close the distance between their mouths and pull at Sirius's hip with his free hand—and it might be out of place, but the fact is that this looks awfully familiar.

It turns out that anger looks a lot like sex. Maybe that's not a coincidence.

Noting that James is still staring at him, apparently awaiting his next move, Sirius offers him his stoniest pureblood glare; regrettably, it appears to have no effect. But he still has his damned Black pride, and so he swallows back all the things he wants to shout, such as: _How in the hell are we supposed to have a proper argument when we keep shagging every five minutes?_

And: _Would you ever just let me hate you in peace?_

He's not quite sure what happens next, but something shifts in James's eyes, and Sirius would never in a thousand years admit to feeling relief when their bodies finally connect. He doesn't realize he's shaking until he feels the tremble of his skin within the tight press of James's arms, and by then, it's too late.

James breathes warm and heavy against Sirius's neck, and Sirius hates him like he has never hated anyone in his life

_(at least when his mother broke his heart, she let him keep it)_

and all the more because he has the feeling he doesn't hate him very much at all.

James curls his fingers in the warm space between their stomachs. Sirius feels it to his bones.

James says, "Don't be a prat, Sirius."

He says, "I'm not going anywhere, you stupid git."

He says, "Tell me how to fix it."

_**rote learning, good penmanship, and chocolate-flavored life lessons**_

Sirius learns the word _love_ like he learns most every word: reading it from a book, copying it over and over under the critical eye of his tutor. "Another line," quill scratching the parchment, _love love love_ until the lines melt together before his eyes and he can hardly tell what he is writing, much less what it means.

"Very good, Master Black," his tutor says. "Your penmanship is improving."

_Love love love love love_, half a meter of parchment and he still doesn't understand.

Sirius asks what it means, really, and his tutor snorts.

"Love is a delusion of mudbloods and fools, Master Black," he says. "Remember that. It is not real. Your loyalty to your family, the power of your blood—these things are real. These are the things that will be with you until death. Remember that."

Sirius remembers.

Five years later, on the train to Hogwarts, an old witch peers inside his compartment and tells him he really ought to buy some sweets. "You're much too thin, love," she says. He looks up in surprise, just as a foil-wrapped projectile lands in the lap of his robe. She offers him a conspiratorial wink and shuts the door, and he stares at his first ever Chocolate Frog for a long time.

_**how to not fall in love, or lust, or whatever they're calling it these days**_

"And you're sure he got the message?"

A predatory gleam of teeth in the darkness. "Trust me, Prongs, he'll _keep_ getting it. There's no way he'll get those boils off his arse all by himself. I figure it'll be a week at least before he shows up at the Infirmary."

James laughs, and Sirius smirks, leaning back against the rough stones and taking another swig from the bottle. Another few drinks, and his smile will be huge and overwhelming. Alcohol has a tendency to make him soft and affectionate, all boozy grins and warm arms slung around James's shoulders. Sirius is beautiful when he's drunk.

James wonders if there is a list of rules, somewhere, for how to not fall in love with your best mate.

(One: never trust those eyes.)

Not that he _is_, mind. That's not it at all. But Sirius is…well, he's Sirius.

(Two: never watch him sleep.)

He's a little odd, and a little scheming, and a lot dangerous, and he is without question James's favorite person in the history of the world. That's no secret. It's one of those things that everyone knows, in a slightly different version—like the story of when the two of them woke up hung-over and starkers in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, only no one knows quite how they got there.

If there _is_ a list, probably right at the top is: _Never sit out on the roof on a warm April night with a bottle of firewhiskey and no witnesses._

But then, James has never much cared for rules.

_**the significance of flowers and other silly rubbish**_

He has never brought Sirius flowers.

The thought won't leave James alone. It's got to mean something, and James can't help wondering, even now—now, as he grinds down into the demanding arch of Sirius's hips, light sparking behind his eyes, fire surging in the pit of his stomach.

It's not like Sirius would _want_ flowers, really, but the point stands.

James brings Lily flowers, sometimes, and she smiles and kisses him sweetly and presses her freckled nose into the petals.

The fact is, his relationship with Lily has practically nothing in common with this

_(this, the great looming This that darkens Sirius's eyes and throbs low in James's stomach, clutches in his chest when Sirius's broom gets blown off-course, twitches his fingers when his best mate slouches loose-limbed and agreeable against his side)_

and it's not like they're a couple of poncy boyfriends, or anything. It's just that sometimes James's shoulders ache or Sirius has strange dreams, and somehow they always come back to each other. Sometimes he fucks Sirius, and sometimes Sirius fucks him—but mostly they just rut together like a pair of animals, eyes half-closed and stinging with sweat, mouths and hands wandering where maybe they shouldn't.

Really, then, this is nothing like what he has with Lily.

He and Sirius have never held hands

_(damp skid of sweat-slick skin, bones creaking, delirious crush of long fingers)_

or shared a soft kiss across the dark corner table at the Three Broomsticks

_(wet wet heat, nip of sharp teeth, pulsing blood want need)_

and James has never ever brought him flowers.

"Stop fucking thinking so much," Sirius gasps, pressing up to bite hard against James's swollen mouth. James moans in surprise or pain or desire, and remembers all over again that Sirius is not Lily.

For all his elegant beauty, Sirius is unquestionably male—from the hard planes of his body to the glitter of dominance lurking in his eyes and hands and hips, even as James presses him back into his bed and drags a deep animal moan from his throat.

If James ever did get a mind to bring him flowers, he expects Sirius would give him a good thumping—after he'd finished laughing himself sick, of course.

Still.

It's got to mean something—

—and then Sirius twists beneath him in glorious agony, and James forgets to care.

_**the truth about mass murderers**_

There is no possible way that James is dead.

It simply doesn't follow. The world was supposed to end; it is impossible that Sirius is here and James is not.

But he is, and James is

_(stone)_

is

_(grey)_

is not here.

Sirius can feel the life pounding through his veins, burning like acid down each path, leaving him raw and throbbing with impatience, and now he knows what it is to be utterly

_(that's the last time we fuck)_

alone.

He remembers being eighteen and angry, stupid, shit-scared of losing what he'd been reckless enough to want and need and count on. He remembers how he tried to pull away, thinking maybe he could still save himself before it was too late. What he's only now starting to understand—

now, right this instant, with his blood surging white-hot and his trembling hands still clutching at the memory of James's cold body

—is that it was always too late, from the very beginning. He was lost from the moment he first spat his name at some Mudblood-loving berk with stupid hair, and James was the one who found him, over

_("Oh, please, don't let me get in Your Majesty's way—")_

and over

_("Mum says breakfast is ready—")_

and over again

_("—the fucking truth—")_

until one day he found Lily instead.

And of course it hurt, it hurt a fuck of a lot, but so did everything. So did life, and Sirius just kept living. Not like he had anything better to do.

James married Lily, and they had a son, and it was all right. Sirius was best man and godfather, and Harry had his father's stupid smile. It was all right. There was too much else to think about—Remus and Regulus and the war, always The War. Sirius had moved on, almost.

_(A lie, of course it's a lie, but what the fuck isn't? Peter—Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. Stupid, nosy Peter. He loved James so much. Love is a delusion, Master Black, but loyalty is with you till death. Remember that.)_

He had almost managed to convince himself that his life was not over—and now it is, but somehow he is still striding down the street, living and breathing and needing to kill more than he has ever needed anything in his life.

The impending slaughter has taken him over. He can hardly wait to feel the blood in his hands, slick and hot, still pulsing its useless traitorous cadence as it slips through his fingers. Blood is power, hateful and damning, and James was too dead to bleed even when Sirius's fingernails tore his skin.

Peter is going to die.

James's death was clean, efficient, but Sirius is going to rip Peter's limbs from his body. He is going to shred Peter's skin, wrench out fistfuls of dripping flesh and muscle, shatter his bones and grind the shards into the hard leather of his heart.

Peter will die; Sirius will kill him. And then.

Harry. Remus. The Order.

He wants to care—wants to worry and plan and protect. He wants to _live_, but it seems impossible, a hazy dream misremembered and half-forgotten.

Sirius thinks he is probably dead after all. It's the only hope he has left.

_**thirty minutes of no lasting consequence**_

The thing of it is this: James isn't perfect.

He is only a man, a boy, who blows his nose and scratches his arse and retches after too many swigs of firewhiskey. He is conceited and selfish and sometimes cruel, and probably he is every chance Sirius will ever have.

At the moment, none of that matters. James and Sirius are Prongs and Padfoot, invincible, and the dog snaps at the stag's legs as they tear through the Forest.

Somehow they've managed to lose the others. Padfoot thinks they really ought to be looking for the wolf, protecting Moony from himself, but the rain has finally stopped and the rhythm of their footfalls foretells a different story.

They don't have long.

Padfoot's jaws bump against a sharp hoof, and the stag stumbles. Neither animal can swerve in time, and they tumble into a messy pile on the drenched forest floor.

Bones shift and slide. The air is heavy with the scent of adrenaline. Muscles stretch and contract. Pale skin erupts where animal hides have vanished, and they are again James and Sirius, long bodies twisting and rolling on the forest floor.

Every time: so much different, so much the same.

Rainwater drips in sweet, heavy beads from the trees, and the boys writhe breathless and urgent against the earth and each other—legs shaking, lips mouthing silent madness against dirt-streaked skin.

Sirius thinks that it is not exactly wrong, and not exactly right, but it is everything that it is not supposed to be.

A howl rises in him, and he muffles it as a low moan as he wraps his lips around the slick, pulsing skin at James's throat.

"Sirius. Sirius."

Sirius digs his fingers into the muscles of James's back, and tries to breathe. "What? Fucking, oh, Christ—what?"

"Sirius," James whispers. He catches Sirius's chin in one hand, holding him steady.

James's hair is laughably disheveled; one cheek is almost entirely smeared with mud. He looks ridiculous. Just looking at him sends a jolt of desire down Sirius's spine, and he tosses his head in frustration, whining in protest against James's tight hold on his face.

James ignores him, of course. Stupid wanker. Sirius intends to sulk, but then James ducks his head, and nothing could possibly be more important than the bump of their noses, James's hot breath against his cheek.

Everything shifts, again, legs and hands and hips. Their lips brush, and James breathes in—

—and then everything fits together, skin and muscle, wet and perfect, and Sirius cries out and rolls his hips without thinking.

"_Sirius_." James bites his shoulder. The dog in him can smell the blood, and Sirius almost comes at the contrite glide of James's tongue over raw skin.

This is so far beyond the limits of acceptable behavior. There's Lily, of course, but also their duties as Marauders: Moony is probably off somewhere ripping innocent children to shreds, or maybe eating Wormtail—but then euphoria bursts white and blinding behind Sirius's eyelids, and his ears roar with the deafening sound of James's telling silence, and the whole world can just piss the fuck off.

_James…_

Sirius once asked his tutor what love meant; he still doesn't understand it, but he knows now that it hurts a thousand times more than his mother's Cruciatus.

The wind through his cell window smells like soap and sweat and wet leaves in October, and his skin keeps forgetting that he is too far gone to miss James at all.

_**and starring Sirius Black as the useless wanker**_

Sirius reads the letter fourteen years too late.

He's almost more amazed that it exists than by what it says. James was never much for writing, preferring the more immediate communication of shouts and punches. They were a matched pair, in that respect—in most every respect, really.

But there is a letter, and James wrote it. He just sat down and pulled out his quill and wrote, _Sirius, if you're reading this—I'm sorry, mate._ Sirius is almost certain it is the first time James ever apologized for anything.

There is a letter, and Remus hands it to him one morning at breakfast, disconcertingly nonchalant. "Dumbledore had it," he says, while Sirius is still staring in confusion at the stiff parchment and broken seal. "Found it in—at the house. He's kept it all this time." Sirius's hands have gone cold and numb, and Remus won't meet his gaze.

Later, he will think about the fact that Dumbledore had the letter—that he took it, and studied it, and kept it. He will feel a rush of blind, savage fury toward the old man: for daring to read these words, for stealing this part of James that belongs to Sirius. He will clench his fists, close his eyes, and take a deep breath full of the same muted, resigned hatred he has always reserved for Lily and for his parents and for anyone who has ever kept him apart from James.

But for now, he stumbles away from the table, away from Remus's deliberately indifferent eyes, and retreats behind closed doors to read James's letter.

Apology aside, the letter seems to be mostly instructions—a guide for the uncertain period following his and Lily's deaths. It might well be titled, _The Useless Wanker's Guide to Life After the Potters._ It goes on about burial arrangements, and hidden bank vaults, and the proper age to give Harry his first flying lesson.

(James knew, then, that Harry would live. Or, maybe, he didn't know—but he had hope, the burning desperate hope that refuses to accept the facts. Sirius thinks he understands that.)

Sirius reads the letter three times. Then again. Then once more. He doesn't know what he's looking for, but it's certainly not there. Something strikes him as wrong about the whole letter. Maybe it's just that it seems too simple—much too straightforward for the king of the Marauders, dead or not.

He stares at the letter for a long while, tapping it idly with his borrowed wand and trying to think like the spirited teenage hell-raiser he once was.

Remus is calling his name from downstairs, timid and hesitant.

Nearly fourteen years later, Sirius can still feel his heartbeat pulse along the lines where the stairs cut into his knees

_(hard and unforgiving as one limp arm twitched and he stumbled over his own desperate optimism)_

and he swallows hard against the urge to vomit.

Finally, he leans forward and pokes at the parchment with the incompatible wand, and hopes like hell he knows James as well as he once thought he did.

"Tell me the fucking truth," he says. The scripted words disappear, and something erupts in his chest as James's careless handwriting blooms slanted and straightforward across the page.

_You bloody fucking idiot, of course I loved you._

And Sirius laughs, short and wretched, because he _is_ a bloody fucking idiot, and his bones ache when it rains, and James is always dead when he wakes up.

_Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,_

_y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo._


End file.
